


Only Forward

by DoctorBilly



Series: Sea Glass and Tattoos [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Billyverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorBilly/pseuds/DoctorBilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is left to get on with his life…</p><p> </p><p>Tags: relationship breakup; dog attack; cynophobia; claustrophobia; alcohol; consensual sex; 'homes and gardens'</p><p> </p><p>This story continues directly from 'Ice Blue Blond'. It is set at around the time of the end of S3, but is not BBC-compatible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Postponement

"I wish I could come…"

"I'll miss you, Greg."

"Yeah. Best go, eh? Don't want to miss your flight."

Lestrade watches Billy and Frankie walk through the departure gate. He sniffs, blinking back tears that threaten to make him look like a big fool. He turns, makes his way out of the terminal building and heads towards the short stay car park. 

Once in the car he lets go, shoulders shaking as he sobs and gasps for breath, overcome with loss. He sits for half an hour, not trusting himself to drive while tears still threaten. Eventually, he cries himself out, falling asleep behind the wheel. 

When he wakes it is getting dark, and he swears as he realises he has overstayed his permit time and will have to pay an excess charge. He drives back to London, feeling lonely and miserable. 

He can't decide whether to go home and watch TV, or go to the pub and get drunk. In the end, he drives back to the Yard. He is miserable already, might as well do some paperwork, catch up on the nasty case he had made an arrest on the day before. It can't make him feel any worse.

*****

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
From: glestrade@nsy.org.uk  
CC: BWiggins@calgary.ac.ca  
To: Group: TD; JL; MH; SH; SD; TG; MHbarts; PA; MHud  
**Subject: Wedding**

Sorry for short notice, but Bill and I have to postpone the wedding. He's in Canada, heading up a big project. Will let you know new date as soon as I do. Please forward to anyone you think I've left off the list.  
**_Greg_**  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lestrade clicks 'send', then sits back in his chair. He wants coffee, but doesn't trust his legs not to shake if he gets up to go to the machine. There are a few people about in the outer office, even at this time in the evening, and he doesn't feel like chatting. He had closed the blinds in his own office when he had arrived half an hour or so earlier, just in case his emotions got away from him. He doesn't want his team to see him in distress. He hears a soft tap at the door and sighs as it opens. 

"Greg?" 

"Come in T. Is that coffee? You're a lifesaver." 

"Just got your email. Bit of a bombshell…" 

"Yeah. I've just put them on the plane. Couldn't face going home." 

"Couldn't he have waited a few more days? Flown out after the wedding?" 

"Apparently not. Frankie's school term starts on the 21st. He didn't want him to miss the first days. I suppose it's important. Once friendship groups get established its hard for kids to break in. But it hurts. I'm going to miss him, T." 

"How long's he out there for?" 

"Six months to start with." 

"Six months? Christ, Greg. From looking at your email I thought a few weeks…" 

"Chances are it'll be extended. A year. Two, maybe. He might like it and decide to stay. It'll be Christmas before I even get to see him again in any case. God knows when we'll get married now. I don't really expect that we will, if I'm honest with myself. Don't know how I'll cope on my own again…" 

"Could you get a sabbatical? Join him over there?" 

"No. I had a six month sabbatical for Scotland. I can't get another one. I'd have to transfer. No guarantee I'd keep my rank. No guarantee of being a DCI again when I came back. Or even having a job at all. If I was younger, I might have considered it. Calgary is Mountie country. It'd be good to get back on a horse. But I'm too old now." 

"Sorry? BACK on a horse?" 

"Yeah. I was in the mounted branch for a while when I was a PC. It was great. Until we started getting riots. You're front line, really visible, on a horse. And first target for yobs lobbing bricks and petrol bombs. It's hard to see the horses getting hurt. That was why I transferred to the Yard, really. Best move of my life. Billy doesn't understand how much I love my job. I AM my job…" 

"Sorry. I just had an inappropriate vision of you on a horse. In breeches and boots…" 

Lestrade chuckles wryly. 

"Stop that, T. It really wasn't that sexy. Makes your arse ache." 

"Do you want to get a pint?" 

"Yeah. I'm not getting any work done here, anyway." 

*****

Dimmock weaves through the crowd in the small pub, trying not to slop beer as he goes. He catches his breath as he looks over to the corner table where Lestrade is finishing his second pint. The man looks broken. 

"Here you go. I'm going to make this my last one, Greg. Work tomorrow…" 

Lestrade smiles faintly. 

"Yeah. I should head home soon too." 

"So. You never mentioned this Canada business.…" 

"I don't really know much. He sprung it on me when were all in Leeds last month. In the middle of a row." 

"But surely something like that takes months of planning? Bidding for funding, that sort of stuff? And sorting out a school place for Frankie couldn't have been done quickly…" 

"I know. He kept it quiet. I don't know why. I thought we were good…He was planning it before we got engaged again. Why did he say yes if he was planning something this big, T? He must have known I would need more time to make arrangements if I was going to go with him." 

"But you're not splitting up?" 

"I hope not. He's not said he wants to, but…" 

"Phone him. Talk it through. Otherwise you'll get broody, your work will suffer and you'll hate yourself. I know you. I've seen you moping over him before." 

"Yeah. I will." 

*****

Lestrade leaves his car at the Yard and takes a cab home from the pub. _More expense._ Cabbies charge more for going south of the river, but it doesn't do to take chances. He can't afford a drunk-driving charge, and knowing his luck at the moment, he'd get stopped. 

He drags himself up the stairs. He doesn't like lifts at the best of times, and will never get in one if he is alone. Throws his coat on the sofa, gets himself a glass of water, letting the tap run for a while first, to clear the pipes, run cold. Takes two paracetamol to stave off the inevitable alcohol headache, washing them down with the water. 

He takes another glass up to the bedroom. He knows he is likely to wake up in the night with a dry mouth. 

He strips off his suit, shirt and socks, climbing into bed in his underpants. He lies for a while looking at the ceiling, then sighs and closes his eyes. He feels empty. 

He wakes in the early hours. There is warmth against his back, and a weight on his shoulder. He shuffles, turning over to face the intruder. 

"No point in asking how you got in, I suppose?" 

Sherlock shrugs, peering at him through narrowed, silvery-green eyes. 

"So. Why are you here?" 

"Your email…" 

"Didn't invite anyone to break into my house…" 

"It said more than it said. Your car was at New Scotland Yard. You were not. I drew the conclusion that you were drinking. Enough to put you over the limit. Unusual this early in the week. And unplanned, or you wouldn't have taken your car to work. The remains of a car park ticket were stuck to the inside of your windscreen. Heathrow, today. 3pm. I checked flights. Canada, 5pm. So you took Billy to the airport this afternoon. Went back to work afterwards. Then went to a pub, but not your usual one, I looked in there briefly, but you were not there. So you wanted to drink but not with your team, indicating that you are not your usual annoyingly cheerful self. Dimmock's DeLorean is parked at the Yard, but Dimmock is not working late, so I inferred that he dragged you away from your desk to the pub after receiving your email." 

"Spot on. Why am I surprised? How did my email say more than it said?" 

" _Will let you know new date as soon as I do_ implies that you do not in fact have a new date, or even a timeframe." 

"We haven't discussed it. All I know is that I won't see him before Christmas." 

"An interesting choice of travel date. Five days before he was supposed to get married…" 

"Not that interesting. Frankie's school semester starts on the 21st. He'll need a couple of days to get over jet lag…" 

"Hmm. Yes. You plan to travel to Canada at Christmas?" 

"Yes." 

"But don't plan to have the wedding at Christmas?" 

"Like I said, we haven't discussed it." 

"You would have done if it was likely…" 

"I know what you're getting at, 'Lock. Please don't make me think about that right now." 

"You're lonely. You've been lonely for weeks, even with him here. It has been obvious to me. You've seen this coming…" 

Lestrade breaks. Sherlock wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, stroking his hair while he cries. 

*****

When Lestrade wakes in the morning, Sherlock has gone. He isn't surprised. He gets up and showers, has coffee, gets dressed. Scotland Yard and paperwork beckon. 

He takes the tube to work, using the time to listen to a podcast of a favourite popular science show. It keeps his mind occupied for an hour, stops him thinking about Billy. At the station buffet he buys a sandwich and a can of fizzy water to put in the office fridge for his lunch. He intends to work through and get as much paperwork cleared as possible. 

His team leave him to work uninterrupted, and he sighs in satisfaction as he puts one of his two major cases to bed. The other is waiting on some forensics reports, but he does as much as he can with it. 

He leaves his office and walks up the stairs to the roof for a cigarette. It is against the rules, but he doesn't care. He makes some personal phone calls; the registrar at Southwark Town Hall, cancelling the wedding. The vicar at St Martins, ditto. 

He smokes another cigarette before going back down to his office. 

He has been putting off reading his emails, but now he has no excuses left. 

There are dozens of unread messages. He sighs, and starts working through them. 

There are a couple of group emails, jokes from his team. He always finds these irritating. They tend to verge on sexism, racism or homophobia, and while they are never explicitly so, they are often near enough to the knuckle to make him uncomfortable. Every few months he has to blister their ears about this type of near-unprofessionalism. It usually works for a while, although he suspects they just take him off their mail list for a few weeks. He decides that if he is miserable, then so will everyone else be, and composes a very formal email instructing them not to pollute the email system with questionable communications. 

There is a message from Mycroft, offering tea and sympathy, asking Lestrade to let him know if he needs anything. Mycroft has obviously read between the lines and come to the same conclusion as Sherlock. 

There is a reminder about the need for timely completion of paperwork. At least he doesn't have to worry about this. He is up to date with his. 

There is a picture message. A flyer from a local pub, under new management. Jam night. Fridays. Bring your instrument, or your voice. Put up a tune you'd like to play or sing on a board, see if anyone wants to join you on stage. Join in with anyone else if you know their tune. Piano, drums and amps provided. It sounds interesting. He hasn't plugged in his bass since Billy's party. He prints off the flyer. 

There is a message from Dimmock reminding him that he and his sergeant will be away in Iceland for a banking fraud case for a couple of days, but promising to catch up and go for a few drinks when he gets back. Lestrade would quite like to be in Iceland. It is one of the places on his bucket list, and the sombreness and gloom of that landscape would suit him well at the moment. 

There are five internal job advertisements, ranging from post room clerk to superintendent. Lestrade can never really understand internal job adverts. Most promotion is done via head-hunting or by taking exams and filling quotas. He can't imagine why anyone already working at the Yard would apply for a post-room job, and he is sure that the superintendent's job is only there for form's sake. He is tempted to apply for it, wonders what would happen if he did. 

There is an email with a link to a voucher for a new Moroccan restaurant on Vincent Street. A meal for two with wine for £10. Lestrade prints it off, then wonders if there is anyone he can go with. It's the sort of thing he used to do with Billy. The offer expires before Dimmock is due back from Iceland. He can't face Anderson over a meal. Not posh enough for Mycroft. No point in asking Sherlock to do anything related to food. He emails Molly Hooper. She'd be a safe date. 

There are replies to his 'wedding' email. Molly, Sally, Anderson, Logan, Gregson, all commiserating and asking him to let them know the new date. Logan's message includes an invitation to St Andrews for Hogmanay. Lestrade replies saying he might be in Canada for Christmas and New Year, but if he isn't, he would be delighted to come to Scotland. It would give him a chance to lay some ghosts. He suspects Logan has been in touch with Mycroft. He makes a note in his diary. 

There are emails asking for his bank details, from PayPal (he doesn't have a PayPal account) and from a dead Nigerian prince's lawyer who has discovered that Lestrade is entitled to several million pounds from the prince's estate. _If only it were true_ he thinks. 

There is a conference confirmation. Four days in Carlisle in November. He had forgotten he'd been asked to go. He writes a note to himself as a reminder to put together a PowerPoint or something for his presentation on "Dealing With The Amateur Detective." 

There are internal 'for sale' ads: a pair of unworn Wellington boots; a top of the range pushchair, nearly new; fitness equipment; fishing equipment; two bicycles; a double bed and two wardrobes, buyer to collect; two tickets for Phantom of the Opera. All human life is here. Lestrade contemplates writing an ad of his own. _For sale: one silver ring with stones in sea-glass shades._ He sighs, twists the ring around on his finger. He won't take it off just yet. 

There is a message from Billy. Lestrade holds his breath as he opens it. 

***Hi Greg. Arrived safely. Will call you soon. Take care of yourself. Billy***

Nothing more. No "miss you". No "love you". No "see you in a couple of months". Nothing. 


	2. Jam and Marmalade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finds something that upsets him. Dimmock tries to help him feel better.

Lestrade checks the board in the pub. A few tunes are already up. This is the third jam night he has attended, and he knows the system now. Two of the songs are ones he knows well, so he ticks the box next to them, writing 'bass' and his initials in brackets. 

He writes his own name on the board; _*Greg (have bass, will play for peanuts) Lestrade*,_ writes in a couple of songs he fancies playing. Hopes he can get a drummer and a guitarist or keyboard player from the crowd. He will check the board again later. 

He is happy to be playing again, even if his fingers still bleed where his old callouses have softened. Pounding out a rhythm on stage gives him a high he can't get any other way. 

*****

Dimmock lurks at the back of the bar, watching the stage. It looks like a lot of fun. Lestrade has been playing a lot. 

There are two other bass players in the bar tonight, but they are not as good as Lestrade, and are less confident, only playing songs they know well. 

Lestrade seems to have a reputation for being able to 'put a bottom' on anything, and he is in demand, being called on to play songs he hasn't signed up for, as well as songs he has. He is enjoying it, too. Dimmock hasn't seen him looking this happy for a long time. 

Dimmock pushes through the crowd to look at the board. There are two songs he knows, that haven't been played yet. Neither of them have 'harmonica' ticked against them. He takes a deep breath and puts his initials against one of them. It has 'GL (bass)' next to it. It is the next song on the list. 

Dimmock climbs up onto the stage, pulling his harmonica out of his back pocket. He smiles at Lestrade, who nods to him and raises an eyebrow. The rest of the group assemble. There is a drummer, thank goodness, and two guitarists. 

Dimmock begins, the opening harmonica chords of **_Love Me Do_** are distinctive, and the rest of the band join in quickly. Dimmock enjoys the feeling of leading a band, not something he is used to. Lestrade looks across at him and grins. At the end of the song, there is applause. 

Dimmock jumps down from the stage but the rest of the band stay put. Lestrade starts playing a riff, seven notes, over and over, while a keyboard player and two mixed-race female singers join the band. Dimmock realises one of the singers is Sally Donovan. 

Lestrade continues playing the seven-note riff, then the singers join in with the opening chorus of **_Lady Marmalade_**. Donovan has a great voice, and she sings the verses. Dimmock belatedly recognises the other singer, a uniformed sergeant from the Yard. 

**_Lady Marmalade_** is Lestrade's last number of the night. He unplugs his bass when the song ends, and jumps down from the stage, grabbing a pint from the bar and weaving through the crowd to join Dimmock at the back of the crowd. 

"Hi T. Nice job with the harmonica there". 

"Hi Greg. I was terrified. It was fantastic. You were bloody good."

"Yeah. It's hard to get off the stage. They like me."

"So. Come here often?"

Lestrade laughs.

"That sounds like a bad pick-up line, T."

Dimmock smiles, ears turning pink. 

"Maybe it was. Sally was good, wasn't she?"

"She was. I saw her mate here last week. Sang a Billie Holliday number. Sal's better."

Donovan and her friend appear at Lestrade's shoulder. 

"Hello sir. Lettice told me there was a really gnarly bass player might be here. Didn't expect it to be you…"

He grins

"So, Sally's here because her mate promised her a gnarly bass player for her song. What brings you here, T? Not the chance to blow a bit on stage, or you'd have signed up for more numbers. Or were you just dipping a toe? We could do **_Roxette_** next week if you like…"

"Sherlock told me you'd be here. I was curious to see what the attraction was. You really like performing, don't you?"

"Yeah. I miss playing with Bill though. He is so good on that Strat…"

*****

"So. Have you heard from Billy and Frankie? How are they doing?"

Lestrade and Dimmock are sitting in the kitchen of the Bermondsey loft, drinking coffee.

"I've had a couple of emails. Frankie's settling into school okay. Learning to skate…actually, he asked me to forward on his school certificates. I'll sort them out while I think of it…"

Lestrade trots upstairs to the study. Dimmock waits for him to come back. And waits, and waits. Walks quietly upstairs and finds Lestrade staring into space. Dimmock thinks for a moment that Lestrade might have had a seizure, he is so still. He touches his shoulder. 

"Greg? Mate? What's wrong?"

Lestrade is clutching something in his fist. He opens his hand, gazes blankly at Dimmock. 

"He left it behind. He took it off and left it here…"

Billy's diamond engagement ring lies on the palm of Lestrade's hand. 

"Maybe he left it by mistake…"

"No. He'd put it away carefully. So I wouldn't find it straight away. Why didn't he just tell me?"

"Greg. I'm so sorry…"

"Sherlock knew. The day Billy left. He came here. He tried to tell me, but I wouldn't listen…"

"Don't stay here tonight, Greg. It won't be good for you to be on your own. Lose yourself in a crowd, go dancing or something. I'll go with you if you like. There's a club round the corner from me. It's open till five…"

Lestrade looks at Dimmock, then shivers. 

"All right. Let's go."

*****

The club is dark and hot. Dimmock is a good dancer, and an old hand at clubbing. Lestrade not so much, but he soon gets into the mix on the dance floor. They dance separately, but not too far from each other. 

Lestrade gets appreciative looks from men and women, and dances with one or two. He kisses one or two, as well, not caring who they are. At some point, in the early hours, he finds himself hip to hip with Dimmock, and pulls him in for a grinding, swaying dance. 

Dimmock looks at him and raises an eyebrow in challenge. Lestrade accepts, bending down a little, just a little, and kissing him hard. Dimmock grips his hand and pulls him from the dance floor and out of the club. They lean against the wall and Lestrade lights a cigarette, which Dimmock grabs and takes a deep drag of before handing it back. 

"All right?"

"Yeah. Thanks T. I needed that."

"Stay at my place tonight, Greg." 

"Yeah. All right."

*****

Dimmock's bedroom is cool. There is a stone-arched window, taking up half the wall, facing on to the street. Dimmock has had it filled with stained glass in shades of green. It is uncurtained and beautiful, casting watery light and shade across the floor and the bed. Dimmock's bed is big and soft and warm. Lestrade lies in it, wrapped around the younger DI. They have had panting, desperate sex, falling asleep as the sun came up. 

Lestrade wakes first, catching his breath and smiling as he remembers he is not alone. He nuzzles the back of Dimmock's neck. 

"Are you asleep?"

"Not any more."

Dimmock laughs. 

"You okay, Greg?"

"Yeah. Feel surprisingly good. That was unexpected, T…"

"I know. But it felt right. Do you want breakfast? Or just coffee?"

"I'm starving. I'll cook…"

"Okay. There's stuff in the fridge. Do you want to jump in the shower first? You'll have to wear the same clothes as last night, sorry. I don't think any of my stuff will fit you. You've got a bit more muscle than me."

It won't be the first time Lestrade has done the walk of shame. Although it has been a very long time since the last time. And it will be the first time it's been from a man's house.

"That's okay. At least we got naked before we started the mucky stuff…"

"Yeah. Last time I had an impromptu stayover it was at Baker Street. Sherlock made me come all over my shirt and pants. And my tie. I had to go straight to work next morning. He lent me a shirt, but I was commando under my suit all day. Bastard."

They both laugh. 

"T, last night was great, but I'm not looking for a relationship…"

"No strings, Greg. But I would like to do it again sometime."

"Give me a few days to get my breath back…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dimmock's song: Love me do: <http://youtu.be/_xuMwfUqJJM>
> 
>  
> 
> Sally's song: Lady Marmalade: <http://youtu.be/r8SdlLWUvtE>
> 
>  
> 
> Lestrade's suggestion: Roxette: <http://youtu.be/XaybV46MA6E>


	3. Things that go bump…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg doesn't have a very happy birthday.

_"I'm sorry, Greg. I have bills to pay. Frankie's school fees are higher than I expected, with the skating and music classes as well as tuition. I need more money than I thought I would. I can let you stay on if you pay rent…"_

Lestrade doesn't expect his first phone call from Billy to be about money. 

Since Billy left for Canada there have been a few texts, a couple of emails, not really saying anything. This morning, when Billy's number lit up on his phone he had thought his probably-now-ex fiancé was calling to wish him happy birthday. Instead, Billy tells him he is selling his home out from under him. 

"How much would the rent be?"

Billy quotes him a figure in dollars. He does a quick and dirty conversion. The rent on the loft would be more than his net monthly salary. He isn't surprised. The loft is huge, well-designed and in a great location. And it has a Klein blue rubber floor. 

"I can't afford that, Billy. How about renting me the boat?"

_"I've already got a tenant. From Brunel. I'll need the boat myself anyway if… when… I come back…"_

Lestrade's jaw tightens. His eyes prickle. 

"Sounds like you've broken up with me, Bill."

_"Greg…. Please. We were brilliant, but you were getting fed up with me. We were arguing all the time…"_

"No, Bill. I was having a hard time adjusting to Frankie being around, that was all. I love you Billy. That hasn't changed."

_"I can't have this conversation now, Greg."_

Lestrade sniffs. He won't cry. 

"All right. How long till I need to move out?"

_"The floor's going to be refinished week after next. You can't stay while that's being done, there will be fumes. The sale boards will go up the next week, the estate agent thinks it will go quickly, it's in a great location. It's too big for one person, and you hate the floor anyway. It gives you a headache."_

"That only gives me two weeks, Bill. What if I can't find anywhere that quickly?"

_"You'll find somewhere, Greg, I'm sorry. I have to go. Goodbye."_

"Billy, please…"

Lestrade realises Billy has ended the call. He knows in his heart that Billy won't be coming back to him. Knew when he found the engagement ring. Knew when he let Dimmock take him to bed.

*****

As it does every year, Lestrade's birthday falls on Halloween. He hates the way it has become commercialised in recent years. 

As a child, he had never trick-or-treated, never worn a costume, never seen the preponderance of orange and black decorations that offend his eyes nowadays. There had been bobbing for apples and ghost stories, as a nod to the old pagan ceremony, but it was a quiet time in general. People stayed home. 

Now, there are parties, costumes, drunkenness, gangs of older kids terrorising housing estates, eggs thrown at houses, cars and people. The uniforms are always busy at Halloween. 

CID are busy, too, but in a different way. 

There are fundraising events all week, culminating in a party on Halloween night. Attendance optional for lower ranks and admin staff, but compulsory attendance, in costume, for anyone ranking above sergeant. That means him. 

His costume is folded carefully in his desk drawer. He plans to get very drunk tonight, and has left his car at home. 

Travelling in by tube gives him a chance to pick up the free papers and look at the accommodation pages. There isn't anything that he considers halfway decent in his price range. 

His salary isn't bad, but he won't be able to raise a deposit for a mortgage any time soon. He doesn't have savings. He had taken on all the household bills when he'd moved to Bermondsey, feeling guilty about not paying a share of the purchase price. The loft had not been cheap to run.

It has been a long time since he has been a tenant. Rents are scandalously high. He will have to move further away from the Yard, have a longer journey into work. He wishes he hadn't let out his old flat in Peckham when he'd moved in with Billy. The tenancy still has months to run, and the tenants are well-behaved. He has no legal way of getting them to move out. The income from the rent is handy, but isn't enough to cover what he would have to pay out to live close to work. 

He sighs, leaves the papers on the train. It is raining as he walks from Pimlico to the Yard. Just his luck. 

He picks up a coffee from Starbucks, trots up the stairs to his office, and grimaces. There is a pile of paperwork waiting on his desk, held in place by a pumpkin. There are also two birthday cards, a rude one from Sally Donovan and a tasteful one from Mycroft Holmes. He stands them up on his desk, for form's sake. He really isn't in the mood for celebrating being fifty one. 

Lestrade works on his files all morning, deliberately not checking his email. At lunchtime he stretches his legs by walking to a nearby snackbar, where he has a sandwich. Back at his desk, he googles estate agents, makes appointments to look at three possible flats. 

He looks out through the glass wall of his office and watches as the lower ranks decorate the main office with orange paper chains, skeletons and spray-on cobwebs. He can't see the point, really. 

He really isn't looking forward to the party. Wishes someone would call him out to a crime scene. He sees Dimmock walking towards his office and flushes, surprising himself. He hasn't seen the young DI since he stayed the night with him a couple of weeks ago. 

"Hi Greg. Happy birthday."

Dimmock hands him a parcel. 

"Um. Hi T. Thanks. Haven't seen you around…"

"No. I've been in Brussels. Big European Bank fraud. Got back last night."

Lestrade is irrationally relieved. He opens the parcel. A book. **_Tintin._** He laughs, opens it. An envelope falls out. He opens that. It is Belgian. A postcard of the _Manikin Pis._ There is a post-it note stuck on the back. 

_*I always think birthdays are pissy. Never had a good one yet. At least you can blame your misery on Halloween. Love, Theo.*_

"Love?"

"Yeah. You know it. I wrote it on a post-it so you don't have to let anyone see it. If you don't want to."

"Theo.…"

"I know. Just staking a claim, in case… you know."

Lestrade smiles a pure Lestrade smile, his breath catching, tears starting to prickle again. 

"Thanks. I don't deserve you". 

"See you later at the party?"

"Yeah. I'll be the pissed bloke in the corner."

Dimmock chuckles.

"I'll be the other one."

*****

The party is in full swing. Lestrade is settled in his corner, quietly working on getting really drunk. 

Despite hating Halloween, he has taken a lot of care over his costume. This years theme is "bad guys". Lestrade is the Joker from Batman, the Heath Ledger version, all smeared lipstick and moody looks. He looks good. 

He glances around the party space, spotting his colleagues. There are quite a few Batman characters. Donovan has come as Poison Ivy, and looks stunning in a green leotard. 

Predictably, there are a couple of CatWomen, two more Jokers, a Riddler and a Penguin. He looks again, and laughs. The Penguin is Mycroft Holmes. The Riddler is Jack Logan, in the same room with Mycroft again. Lestrade smiles. _Those two…_

Sherlock is there, dressed as Loki, and looking fantastic. John Watson is nowhere to be seen. _Wife probably wouldn't let him out,_ Lestrade thinks. Anderson has very cleverly come as Agent Smith. The cops have done a good job tonight.

Someone nudges his arm. 

"Pissed yet?"

Dimmock is dressed as Alex from _A Clockwork Orange._ He looks incredibly young. 

"Getting that way. Nice costume, T."

"Thought I'd go for something different. Too many Batman villains…"

He coughs, flushes, realising what he has just said. 

"No offence, Greg. You look fantastic. You'd win the 'Best Joker' prize hands down."

"Yeah. I went for the cheesy option, but thought I'd punk it up a bit. Who's Gregson supposed to be? "

"Voldemort, I think. You can see it if you squint a bit."

They both laugh. 

"Are you going to dance?"

Dimmock looks wistfully at the centre of the room, which is heaving with bodies.

"Nah. I'm really going to get pissed. 'Lock's prancing about a bit, why don't you go and dance with him?"

Dimmock leans in closer.

"I'd really like to dance with you, Greg. Take you home later…?"

Lestrade sighs. 

"Any other night, I'd be up for it. But not tonight, T. Tonight's not going to be a good night for me. I'll be better on my own. I've got a lot of sorting out to do in my head. Don't worry about me. If you still fancy me tomorrow when we're both sober…"

Dimmock grins tightly. 

"See you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah. If you don't find the love of your life hidden under a batman villain's costume tonight."

Lestrade doesn't hear Dimmock's whispered _"I already have"_ , as he is distracted by a flash going off in his face. Artie Dughall, dressed as Harvey Two-Face, is taking pictures of the party. 

"That's the best picture of the night so far. Hello, Mr Lestrade."

"Hello Artie. These going up on Instagram?"

"Only the best ones. I'll send you a link. Are Alex and Loki an item?"

"You mean Theo Dimmock and Sherlock?"

"Yeah. They were together at that festival. Are they still, do you know?"

"Um. Pretty sure they're not."

"Right. See you later."

Artie grins and pushes his way into the crowd. 

Lestrade carries on drinking. Dimmock dances with Sherlock a lot. Artie Dughall takes lots of pictures.

Tobias Gregson climbs on a table and makes a short speech, thanking everyone for their fundraising efforts . As DCI, Lestrade could have had the dubious honour of being MC but ceded the job to Gregson, on the grounds that he expected to be too pissed by the time it came to actually do any MC-ing. 

Prizes are awarded for best costume, most unusual villain, yada yada. Lestrade is awarded the prize for 'Best Joker'. He suspects Dimmock suggested the category. He smiles and thanks everyone as politely as a drunk man can. _Best joker_ , he thinks. _Yeah, that describes me pretty well._

He looks around the room. It is beginning to shimmer and blur. He sees Dimmock dancing with Artie Dughall , then doesn't see him any more. He feels woozy, manages to get himself to the gents' lavatories before throwing up violently.

Strong arms hold him as he is sick. A gentle Scottish burr in his ear soothes him.

"Come on laddie. Let's get you home."

Logan and Mycroft brace him on either side and walk him to the lift. He panics, his fear of enclosed spaces filling him, and he is sick again in the corner, miraculously missing everyone's shoes. 

Mycroft wipes his face with a damp handkerchief and holds a bottle of mineral water for him to sip from. The two men manhandle him into the back seat of their big black car, and he falls asleep, head on Logan's lap. 

He doesn't remember the car ride home to Bermondsey, the lift ride up to the loft apartment. Is vaguely aware of a velvet voice.

"I'll stay with him, Mycroft. He shouldn't be left alone."

*****

Lestrade wakes, head pounding, feeling nauseous. It is still dark, and there is a warm body beside him in the bed. He struggles to sit up. 

"I need to piss…"

He staggers as he stands up, the room swimming around him. Large hands are immediately on his shoulder and hip, steadying him. 

"How much did you drink, Lestrade?"

"Enough to poison myself. What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"Making sure you don't choke on your own vomit. You've done it enough times for me. It only seemed fair…"

Sherlock helps Lestrade to the bathroom, waits while he pisses, hands him a bottle of mouthwash, instructs him to swill and spit. He helps him back to bed, gives him two paracetamol tablets and holds a glass of water for him to sip from. Lestrade is shaking and sweating, still nauseous, but the water helps.

"I thought you'd be with Theo…"

"No, I think Artie is probably trying to charm his way into Theo's pants tonight."

Lestrade moans. _*Batman villain*_

"Theo offered to take me home with him. I decided to get drunk instead. Think I've blown my chances there…"

"Yes, well. I think we can agree you're an idiot, Lestrade."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is Billy being so horrible? 
> 
>  
> 
> There will be a standalone tale from Billy's POV. Later.


	4. A bad place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is injured while on a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is injured and in hospital again. His luck must improve soon, surely?

Lestrade surveys his new domain. It is sparse. 

A bedsit, semi-furnished with a small gas cooker, fridge and a sofa-bed. Utilitarian wall cupboard and sink unit, small, cheap Formica countertop. Ugly curtains at the window in the kitchen end of the room. Uglier curtains at the other, sitting/sleeping end. 

There is a small built-in wardrobe behind the front door. The only other furniture is a tiny Formica table and a couple of spindly kitchen chairs. 

The bathroom is tiny. Toilet, basin and a shower he will have trouble turning around in. Water pressure is high, surprisingly. The shower will be okay if he can lever himself into it. 

It was the best of the three flats he looked at and he hates it. He hasn't yet slept in the flat since taking on the tenancy, all he had time to do before leaving for the Carlisle conference was to arrange for gas, electricity, wifi and water supplies to be turned on. 

He has taken a day's leave today and has shopped for essentials. Bedding, a kettle and a couple of mugs. Some coat hangers. Towels. Tea and coffee. Beer. He has brought his red Delonghi coffee maker, the only thing from the loft that he actually owns. He has left his bass and amp in the boot of his car. He doesn't know when he'll feel like playing again. He hangs up his work clothes, leaves everything else in the suitcase in the bottom of the wardrobe. 

He goes out for a walk, scouting out his new 'manor', finding the pubs and takeaway restaurants, launderette, the nearest Waitrose. He'll need cooking pans, utensils, plates. He sighs, walks back and gets the car, drives to IKEA, half an hour away. He goes straight to the mis-named 'market place' and picks up a starter box of cookware, another of crockery, a couple of goodish knives. He waits a long time in the queue to pay. He thinks of dumping his trolley and walking away, but controls the urge. He needs to be able to cook. 

Back at the flat, he unloads the car, bringing the bass and amp inside as well as his new purchases. A second look at the local area has made him doubtful about leaving anything in the car. He wishes he could bring the car inside, too. He plugs his iPad in to charge. It will serve in lieu of a TV. He checks his phone. No messages. He looks through the takeaway menus he picked up earlier. Orders chicken jalfreezi and Bombay potatoes. Calls up his misery playlist, sits and mopes. 

The takeaway turns out to be pretty good. He drinks a beer with it and watches a comedy programme on catch-up TV. His wifi signal is not too bad. He washes up his plate and fork, sighs as he realises he needs to get a kitchen bin. He showers, missing the loft's wet room. At least the water is hot. Folds out the sofa bed and goes to sleep. Dreams of Billy and wakes up crying. 

*****

In the morning, Lestrade makes coffee, then heads to work. He is halfway through a briefing when he and his team are called to a crime scene. It is pretty nasty, two bodies. Both appear to have been mauled by some sort of large animal. 

The scene is confusing, there seems to be more blood than there ought to be, and there are dozens of sets of footprints, many of them made after the blood was spilled. 

"Do we need to call in the…"

"Don't say the word, Donovan"

"Sorry, sir. Do we need him?"

"Not this time, Sal. I know what this is. We just need to talk to some informants."

Lestrade recognises the signs of organised dog fighting. Something has clearly gone wrong, given the bodies, but he is pretty sure that forensics will identify the blood as being a mix of human and canine. 

He leaves Anderson and his team to gather evidence, takes Donovan with him to talk to his most promising informant. It pays off immediately. He is given a name and a location. 

They go to question their probable suspect, Donovan calling in the details to the Yard, requesting an animal handling team. 

The suspect's address is an old stable mews, and dogs can be heard barking behind heavy gates. As Lestrade and Donovan approach, the gates open and a van starts to drive out. Manoeuvring in the narrow mews is difficult, and Lestrade waves the driver to a stop. He knows he should wait for backup, but doesn't want to see his man escape. 

Their suspect is not the driver. He is in the passenger seat of the van, and leaps out, running to the back of the van and letting out the dogs, who make straight for the two police officers. 

Lestrade grabs Donovan and heaves her up as high as he can. She scrambles on to the roof of the van, phoning desperately for backup. 

Lestrade isn't quick enough to follow, and goes down, kicking and flailing. He hears sirens, hears Donovan shouting _*the Guvnor's down*_ , hears shots before everything goes black. 

*****

Lestrade wakes to a world of pain. He opens his eyes and quickly shuts them again, the light is too bright. 

He hurts all over, and his throat is sore, mouth parched. He hears a chair scrape across lino, and carefully opens his eyes again. 

His right eye feels odd. He can't see out of it. He lifts his right hand to touch, but it is grabbed and pulled away. The hand hurts, feels stiff. His left leg hurts like hell, feels like it is on fire from knee to heel. He aches everywhere, but his neck hurts most. 

His left eye waters, and he blinks, the room coming into better, but not complete, focus. Sally Donovan is holding onto his right hand, very gently and carefully. She has been crying, and starts again. 

"Hey, Sal…"

"You're in hospital, sir. You were attacked by the dogs…"

"Yeah. I remember."

His voice is deeper than he remembers it being, gravelly. It breaks as he speaks. He wonders, bizarrely, if he is going through a second puberty.

"Did we catch him?"

Donovan laughs tearfully. 

"Trust you to ask that first. Yes, sir. Got a confession. The two victims were put into the fighting pit alive. The dogs…"

She shudders.

"You saved me, sir. I thought we were going to lose you…"

"What's wrong with my voice?"

"You came round in the ambulance, fought the paramedics. They had to force a breathing tube down your throat. And there are injuries…"

"Ah. You went in the ambulance with me?"

"'Course I did. Couldn't let you be all alone."

"How long have I been out?"

"About fourteen hours, sir. Glad you're awake. I'll let the team know you're out of danger."

She chokes. 

"Was I in danger, Sal?"

He asks gently. 

"I'll let the doctors explain, sir. They'll be along soon, now you're awake."

*****

"You went into severe shock. We had to put you on a respirator to help you breathe for a few hours. Your throat will be sore from the tube, but that won't last long. Your voice might be sexier than usual for a few more days."

The young doctor smiles, her eyes twinkling.

"The eye is undamaged, although the orbit was chipped. Your vision will be unaffected. You were very lucky that your marksman shot the dog that went for your throat before it had the chance to properly close its jaws. It's probable that you would not have survived otherwise. As it is, you have bite injuries on one side of your neck, a very mangled right hand and a severely damaged left Achilles' tendon. You are a very lucky man, Chief Inspector Lestrade. Any one of your injuries could have left you permanently disabled. The angels were watching you."

The doctor patted his left, undamaged hand. 

"How soon can I get back to work?"

"I don't know. It depends how well your injuries heal and how well you respond to physiotherapy. You'll be staying here for a few more days, at least. We contacted your next of kin, but he is apparently out of the country and unable to return. Is there anyone else you would like us to contact?"

"No. There isn't anyone."

He'd forgotten to change his records, remove Billy's details. He wonders who else he could put as his emergency contact. He hasn't seen Dimmock since the night of the Halloween party. Thinks the young DI must be deliberately avoiding him. Sherlock isn't reliable enough to be anyone's emergency contact.

"Well, we'll arrange for a community nurse to visit you at home to change your dressings and help you bathe."

"I'm sure I'll be able to take a shower…"

"Sorry. You'd be surprised how many people with tendon injuries fall over in the shower. I'd rather you didn't take the risk. If you had someone at home to help you…"

"All right. But I'm not letting any nurse see me naked."

"Too late for that, I'm afraid."

She laughs kindly as he blushes. 

*****

"Mycroft, what are you doing here?"

Lestrade has woken from a doze to find the British Government staring at him worriedly, eyes roving over the bandages around his head and neck. 

"Dr Wiggins called me. He was rather concerned. I see why."

"It's just a few dog bites…"

"Gregor, it was a vicious and near-fatal mauling. Which will take time to recover from. I insist on moving you to a more appropriate facility immediately."

Lestrade knows better than to argue with Mycroft Holmes over trivial matters. 

"All right. Somewhere where they have good coffee, please?"

"Of course."

Mycroft smiles. Makes a brief call to his assistant. 

"It will take about 45 minutes to organise the transfer. Is there anything you need?"

"My iPad. It's in my new flat. "

He gives Mycroft the address, not that he really needs it. 

"I understand Dr Wiggins will be staying in Canada for some time?"

"Yeah. Don't know how long. He left his engagement ring here. Now he's sold the loft. I should have changed my emergency contact. They shouldn't have called him…"

"Is the breakdown irretrievable? You have recovered from setbacks before. You were so in love…"

"Yeah. It's over this time, Mycroft."

"Is there anyone you would like to see? Sherlock will visit, of course, as soon as he knows. Will your sergeant have notified Theodore?"

"I expect he knows. Sal said she'd told everyone. Dimmock's been avoiding me since Halloween, anyway. I did something stupid. I don't expect he'd want to see me now. Don't put pressure on him."

"If you're sure…"

"I am."

"Your new flat. Catford? Is that really a suitable location?"

"Bedsit. Best I could do, given the time frame. He gave me two weeks to get out."

"You'll look for something better though? Somewhere more appropriate?"

"Yeah. But rents are expensive. It won't be easy. And I can't guarantee keeping my job. This is the second year I've been unavailable for work over Christmas. HR don't look kindly on too much sick leave…"

"Please don't concern yourself with that. I have some influence. But you mentioned renting a property. Would it not be better to buy?"

"I've no capital, Mycroft. Well, not enough for a deposit, and at my age, I'll need a big deposit. Fifty, sixty percent."

"Surely you have a share in the money raised from selling the loft?"

"No. That's all Bill's. He paid cash. From his licensing contracts for Paramorph. I asked him if I could rent the houseboat, but it's already let out. The boat's all his as well. I signed my half over when I sent him back to London, remember? So he'd have somewhere of his own, wouldn't have to squat."

"Gregor, what happened to your Peckham property?"

"I let it out when I moved in with Bill. There's still months to go on the tenancy agreement."

"If only we could foresee the future…"

"Yeah. I never expected to break up with Billy. I thought it would be for ever…There's the diamond, of course, but I don't really want to sell it. I don't have provenance anyway. You know how I got it…"

"Yes. An attempt to sell it might be questioned… Would you allow me to loan you the money for a deposit?"

"No Mycroft. I won't impose on you. And I don't want a loan hanging over me, or causing friction between us."

"Well, at least let me see if I can help find you a suitable, affordable rented alternative to a bedsit in Catford? I have resources I can deploy to make a search faster and more efficient…"

"Yeah. Alright. I'll let you do that. But no more. And wait till I'm on my feet properly. I'll want to look at the places myself, see what they feel like."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To find out what happened at the Carlisle conference, read my standalone fic [Dealing With The Amateur Detective](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2124732)


	5. When will it stop hurting?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is in hospital. He has a couple of visitors. And a couple of text conversations.

"I thought we'd already agreed that you were an idiot, Lestrade. You really didn't need to provide further evidence."

Lestrade keeps his eyes closed, pretends to be asleep. 

"I know you're awake. What were you thinking?"

"Piss off, Sherlock."

"Greg. I could have lost you…"

_*Greg*_

Lestrade opens his eyes to look at Sherlock. The man is visibly, and unusually, distressed. 

"Sherlock. I'm all right. It's just a few bites…"

"I've seen your chart. And spoken to your doctors. And to Sergeant Donovan, who has been singing your praises to everyone who'll listen. Says you saved her life, and almost lost your own. I don't doubt that for a moment."

"She's exaggerating."

"No. There is CCTV footage. You threw her onto the roof of the van. That was a superhuman effort. It cost you. Put you off balance. That dog had its jaws on your throat. You were millimetres from death, Lestrade. Microseconds. Donovan saved _your_ life, you know, by calling the animal handlers in while you were on your way to talk to your suspect. They got there in time to bring the dog down before it ripped your throat out. I…you... owe her, Lestrade. Get better, let the nurses look after you, so she doesn't get some fool of another DI or DCI in your place."

"All right Sherlock. I consider myself spanked. I'll be good."

"Yes. Good."

"Help me sit up?"

Sherlock gently puts his arms around Lestrade. Helps him to sit, arranging pillows behind him to make him comfortable. 

"Oh, Greg, what would I do without you?"

Sherlock lays his head in the DCI's lap. Lestrade winds the fingers of his good hand in his hair. 

"Let's hope it's a while before you have to find out, eh?"

They sit for a while in silence. Lestrade thinks Sherlock might have fallen asleep. He sighs. 

"Sherlock. Can you do something for me?"

"Mmm. What?"

"Can you get into my iPad for me? I changed the password and I can't remember it. I want to check my emails and stuff. It'll be easier than on the phone. The keyboard's bigger. I've only got one hand I can use at the moment…"

"Yes. Of course."

Lestrade is embarrassed at how quickly Sherlock cracks his password. He checks his email. Nothing from Billy or Dimmock. The usual all-staff emails. A link to Instagram from Artie Dughall. 

"Um. It might be best to stay away from Instagram until the fuss dies down. You don't want to be logged as a repeat visitor."

"Fuss?"

"You don't know? How can you not know?"

"Know what? What don't I know?"

"DI Dim?"

"Don't be rude. What about him? Haven't seen him since Halloween. You know I fucked up that night. He's been avoiding me…"

"There's something you should see. I'm surprised you haven't seen it already."

"I've been busy. Looking for somewhere to live, going to conferences, arguing with your brother about keeping secrets, getting attacked by dogs…"

"Ah. Yes. Wait. Looking for somewhere to live?"

"Yeah. Billy's sold the place in Bermondsey. Told me on my birthday. Halloween. Great timing. I spent the fortnight running up to the conference traipsing round London looking at flats."

"Did you find one?"

"I'm not camped out on your sofa, am I? Yes I found one. It's shitty, but you can't have everything. You were going to show me something?"

Sherlock has been looking at YouTube on Lestrade's iPad.

"I've found you some violin performances, to calm you and help you sleep. I know you like violin, even if you pretend not to. And there's another performance you might enjoy. I've emailed you the links. Now, here's the thing you need to see."

He opens the link to Instagram. 

"Those are pictures of the Halloween party. That's a great one of you. And that one of me is good. Not so sure about the one of me charging into the loo to be sick…. "

Lestrade frowns. 

"These aren't all Artie's. Some of them are phone pictures. That one of Mycroft and Logan is really brilliant. I might get that blown up and made it into a poster. Give it to them for Christmas. Why is this important? Oh. Oh my God…"

Sherlock enlarges the image on the screen. The photograph is a little fuzzy, obviously taken with a camera phone. It is Dimmock, in bowler hat and one false eyelash. And apparently nothing else. In a cubicle in the gents lavatory. With someone kneeling in front of him, hands on his hips. It is impossible to tell who the kneeling person is.

"Um. Sherlock, who else has seen these? I mean, at the Yard?"

"Everyone who was at the party, I imagine. And their friends."

"Why would someone upload this?"

"Dimmock has always suffered homophobic harassment. You know that. Someone thought it would be funny. Or was being nasty. I can find out who, if you want."

"Ask Theo if he wants you to. Can you get it taken down?"

"Not easily."

"The Super will have seen it. Bloody hell…"

"I believe DI very Dim has been suspended…"

"Poor bugger. I need to talk to your brother…"

*****

***To: MH: Are there any strings you can pull to help Dimmock out? GL***

***To: GL: I assume you wish me to try to have his suspension lifted? MH***

***To: MH: Please? Sherlock'll be getting twitchy. He'll need someone he can work with, while I'm out of action. GL***

***To: GL: A good point. I will see what I can do. MH***

Lestrade eats his lunch (much better than he would have been served in an NHS ward) and settles down to nap, listening to a violin concerto Sherlock selected for him. He wakes after a couple of hours, his phone pinging insistently. 

***To: GL: Sally told me you're in Queen Mary's . Which ward? TD***

***To: GL: Queen Mary's say you were discharged. Are you at home? Need to talk. TD***

***To: GL: When did you move out of Bermondsey? TD***

***To: GL: Where the FUCK are you, Lestrade? Sal says you were hurt bad. TD***

Lestrade sighs, picks up his phone and calls Dimmock. 

_"Dimmock"_

"Hi T. Just woke up and saw your texts. You okay?"

_"Greg? You sound weird…"_

"Yeah. Dodgy throat. I'm in Mycroft's private clinic. It's in Kensington somewhere, I think. Not sure of the exact address. Ask Sherlock to bring you if you want to see me. He knows where it is and how to get past the dragons on the doors."

_"Sally says you nearly died…"_

Lestrade hears Dimmock's voice catching. Thinks the young DI might be crying. 

"I'm all right, T. Sherlock will fill you in. He knows more than I do."

_"I'm on my way to Baker Street now. Are you sure you want to see me?"_

"Yeah. Bring grapes."

Lestrade switches his phone off, picks up his iPad and touches the link for the other video Sherlock sent him. It is film of the jam night when he and Dimmock played "Love Me Do". Lestrade smiles, watches as he dozes off again. 

He wakes, feeling eyes on him. Dimmock is looking at him over a huge bunch of autumnal flowers. There is half a bunch of grapes and some suspiciously denuded twigs sitting on top of a paper bag on the foot of the bed. 

"Hello. The grapes were supposed to be for me. Nice flowers. "

"Hello Greg. How did you get yourself savaged by dogs?"

"Couldn't jump high enough…"

"Not funny. God, you look a right state. Mycroft told me you'd asked him not to bother me. Why?"

"You've been avoiding me since Halloween."

"I thought you were avoiding me. Because of the picture."

"Idiot. I didn't even know about the picture till this morning. I've been preoccupied, looking for somewhere to live, then the conference, then the dogs…"

"Why have you moved out of Bermondsey? That's a great flat…"

"Billy sold it. He told me on my birthday. I had two weeks to find somewhere…"

"Oh, Greg. That's why you were a bit off at the party. Why didn't you say something?"

"I thought you might feel you had to invite me to stay with you. Didn't want to put you in a difficult position."

"I would have. Have you found somewhere?"

"Yeah. Catford. So. Why'd you text me today? After nearly three weeks of nothing?"

"Superintendent called me. Told me I could go back to work next week. Said someone had pulled strings to get me reinstated. Mentioned 'friends in high places'. I haven't got any of those, but you have. I phoned Mycroft. He said you'd called in a favour. I wanted to know why. Since you haven't spoken to me for nearly three weeks…"

"Super's a fool. There's no call to suspend someone because some arsehole puts a dirty picture of them online."

He huffs out a laugh

"You're a silly fucker, Theo."

"I'm going to have to be re-vetted before I can do international work again. I'll be working domestic stuff. Probably your caseload, while you're off sick. How long will you be off? Have they said?"

"At least till Christmas. Probably new year. I wouldn't worry about the vetting. Mycroft's on it. "

"Are you okay with the picture? With me letting…"

Lestrade interrupts

"I don't want to know who it was. I told you at the party. I'm not your boyfriend. Who you fuck is your business. You look good in the nude. I might crop it a bit and put it on my office wall when I get back…"

"Don't you dare. It's bad enough my team and yours have seen it. It's going to be hard to deal with the sniggers."

"Ignoring them is the best way. Be cool. Don't lose your temper. Call Sherlock in a lot. He'll give them something else to think about. It'll blow over, T."

"Yeah. All right. I thought I'd pissed you off…"

"Nah. It'd take more than that. Come and talk to me about cases if you need to. I'm probably going to be in here for a couple of weeks yet, I'll be getting cabin fever. My Achilles tendon's bad, I can't walk yet. And my throat's pretty bad as well. I'm still hoping I'll be able to go to Scotland for new year, to stay with Jack Logan, now I'm not going to Canada. Keep your fingers crossed for me, eh? And keep in touch. I want texts every day. And pictures. They don't have to be dirty, but…"

"Wanker"

"I wish. I'm going to need a thorough seeing to when I get out of here. Might be looking for volunteers…"

"Put my name down. Actually, don't put anyone else's name down."

Lestrade laughs. 

"All right. You keep your nose clean, now. Be careful."

"Yeah. I might try celibacy for a while…"

"Silly bugger. Give us a kiss and sod off."

Dimmock sobs with relief, bends and touches his lips to Lestrade's, very gently. Lestrade puts his good hand on the back of Dimmock's neck and pulls him closer, kissing back hard and twisting his fingers in Dimmock's hair. He drags his mouth across the young mans cheek, across his ear, whispers breathily. 

"I've missed you, Theo. Don't stay away too long." 

Dimmock leaves, more cheerfully than he arrived. Lestrade watches him go, is about to nap again when his phone pings. 

***To: GL: How are you? The hospital said you were badly injured. BW***

***To: BW: I'm okay. Should be fine by Christmas. Thanks for calling Mycroft. GL***

***To: GL: What happened? BW***

***To: BW: Got attacked by fighting dogs. Nearly had my throat ripped out. GL***

***To: GL: God, Greg. I don't know what to say. BW***

***To: BW: I'm okay. I found a flat. Moved out of the loft. You already know that, of course. I found your diamond. Did you leave it on purpose? GL***

***To: GL: Yes. I'm sorry. I'm seeing Liam. Didn't know how to tell you. I hope you can forgive me. BW***

***To: BW: I thought you must be. Didn't realise it started before you left. I'll change my emergency contact. Give my love to Frankie. Goodbye Billy. GL ***

Lestrade turns his phone off. Every time he thinks he's finally getting over Billy, something happens to remind him it isn't going to be that easy. _When will it stop hurting?_


	6. Guerrilla glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is out of hospital. Dimmock rescues him.

Lestrade struggles up the four flights of stairs to his bedsit. _This is going to get old really quickly_ , he thinks, as he sits and heaves himself up the final flight on his backside, one step at a time, shopping bag bumping against every step. 

He hopes he hasn't burst the milk carton this time. He hauls himself to his feet, scrabbles for keys, and lets himself in. The sofa bed is still folded out, he hadn't had the energy to strip it and fold it away before going out. He walks slowly and carefully to the kitchen end of the room, emptying the shopping bag and putting milk and butter in the fridge, bread on the counter. 

He sits on the bed, pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks for messages. Nothing new. 

He sighs and lies down, not even bothering to take off his coat or shoes. For a while he gazes at the ceiling, then drifts into a fitful sleep. When he wakes, it is dark, even though it is only late afternoon. It will be the winter solstice in a couple of weeks, then Christmas, and he will need to think about returning to work.

He scrabbles under the pillow for his iPad, swiping the screen and swearing as he catches his thumb on the sharp edge of one of a network of cracks in the so-called guerrilla glass. The screen lights up, illuminating the drops of blood that fall from his thumb. Today, he is glad he didn't do more damage when he threw the device at the wall. Yesterday, he had wanted to utterly destroy it. 

He is cold. The single radiator in the room is lukewarm. He is pretty sure it needs bleeding. The landlord has not returned his calls. 

Outside, the temperature has dropped below freezing. Inside it is about fifteen degrees. He slept in his coat last night, and will do the same again tonight. 

He has been out of hospital for two days, and no one has visited. Dimmock has been in Brussels for the last week, called back as a prosecution witness for a fraud case he had worked a while back. Lestrade texted Sherlock two days ago to tell him he was being discharged, but hasn't heard back and guesses he must be busy. The consulting detective has been known to lose track of time completely when he is engrossed in a case. 

At any other time he would be fine by himself. He is generally happy with his own company, but he is feeling particularly sorry for himself just now. 

He is feeling hungry, so he makes toast, bringing it back to bed, not worrying about crumbs getting inside the duvet. There is a knock at the door. Lestrade debates ignoring it, but it is repeated, more firmly. A policeman's knock. He struggles to his feet and goes to answer it. 

"Hi Greg, thought I'd surprise you."

Dimmock grins at him from behind a ridiculously large bunch of evergreens. He has a rucksack over his shoulder and his free hand holds a carrier bag that clinks invitingly. 

"Theo. Come in. Sorry about the state of the place. I thought you were still in Belgium…"

"Court case finished this morning. I managed to get a seat on the Eurostar. Came straight here…"

Dimmock looks around for somewhere to put down the greenery. Eventually, he dumps it in the sink. He puts the carrier bag and rucksack down on the bed, then turns and puts his hands on Lestrade's shoulders, pulling him in for a kiss. Lestrade buries his face in the younger man's neck. His voice is muffled and cracks as he speaks.

"It is so good to see you, T. I've had a miserable couple of days."

Dimmock narrows his eyes, scanning the room. He notices the cracked iPad and the blood still dripping from Lestrade's thumb. 

"You probably should check you haven't got glass splinters in that…"

"I just caught the edge of a sharp bit. It's not much more than a paper cut. Don't fuss, T."

"Going to give me the tour then?"

Lestrade waves his arm at the room. 

"This is it, mate. The bed folds up, but it's hard work. My hand is still stiff, and I can't get proper leverage with only one good leg. I haven't bothered. It's freezing, as well, so I just roll myself up in the duvet. Need to get a radiator key so I can bleed the bastard thing. There is a bathroom…"

"Talking of which, do you mind?"

"Help yourself"

He points to the door, and Dimmock quickly goes and makes use of the lavatory, pulling the flush lever several times before it works. Lestrade hears Dimmock swear as the basin tap sputters and splashes him with too-hot water. He returns to the main room, frowning. 

"Greg. I don't mean to be rude, mate, but this is a dump. What made you move in here?"

"Best I could do in the circumstances…"

"Good job you've got your coat on. Come on. You can give me a lift home."

"I can't, Theo. I can't drive. My ankle won't stand it."

"Give me your keys then. I'll drive. I'm not leaving you here. What do you need to take with you for tonight? We can come back for the rest of your stuff tomorrow. You can't have much here, there's no room…"

"Theo…"

"No arguments, Greg."

Lestrade sighs, pulls his suitcase out of the wardrobe. Puts his iPad in a plastic bag and rolls it up in case of glass splinters, shoves it in the suitcase. Collects his few toiletries, shoves them in too. 

"I bought bread and milk…"

"Bring them. No sense in letting them go off. Bring your coffee as well. You always moan about mine. Do you want to bring your bass? God, why am I even asking that? Tell you what, empty your coffee maker and pack it up while I go and stow your bass and amp in the boot. I'll come back and give you a hand with your other stuff."

"We can probably fit everything in the car. Like you said, I haven't got much. Am I reading this right, T? Are you rescuing me?"

"Yep. I've got loads of room. A nice big, warm bed…"

"Are you sure? I'm not much use for anything…"

"You'll be useful for what I've got in mind. And you can cook…"

Dimmock grins, hugging Lestrade.

"You are _not_ staying here. We'll come over tomorrow, tidy up and see about getting your deposit back, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Theo. You're a bloody marvel."

*****

Lestrade starts cooking supper while Dimmock trots to and from the car, bringing the DCI's possessions in and stowing them away. 

"You really didn't have much, Greg…"

"No. I've never been one for a lot of possessions. Jeanie kept most of our stuff, records, books, what-have-you, after the divorce. I never collected much in Peckham. The only thing that was mine from the loft was the coffee maker. You don't need to keep it if it clashes with your baked bean tins…"

Dimmock has a collection of Heinz baked bean tins dating back to the 1950s, and they are artfully displayed in a pyramid on a kitchen shelf. They match his cooker perfectly. 

"It contrasts. That's better than trying to match, and anyway, it's the same red as the labels on the coke bottles in the chandelier."

"Yeah. I suppose so. This house is a bit 'designery', T. Did you do it yourself? It reminds me a bit of the place we had in Scotland…"

Lestrade goes quiet and still. 

Dimmock notices. He is a detective, after all. 

"Tell me what's wrong, Greg. You're too bright and brittle. Has something happened?"

Lestrade nods, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. He turns down the gas under the spaghetti sauce he has been stirring and goes to retrieve his iPad from his suitcase. 

"You know I was planning to go out to Canada for Christmas. I signed up for the Calgary news, so I'd have an idea of what people were talking about. It's a sort of weekly email digest. You know, local events, local human interest stories, births, deaths, that sort of stuff. I never got round to cancelling it. Anyway, it popped into my inbox yesterday. Here."

He hands the iPad to Dimmock, who thumbs the screen carefully, avoiding the cracks. The screen lights up, open to a web page. A picture article takes up half the screen. 

"Oh Greg, love. Hadn't he told you?"

"No. It was a bit of a shock. I threw the thing at the wall. Surprised I didn't kill it, actually."

The small picture is of two men laughing. The main focus of the article is a research project that has provided employment for a number of local people, with a passing mention of the researchers who held their civil partnership ceremony earlier in the week. Dr Bill Wiggins and Dr Liam Callaghan. 

"I feel a bit numb. I knew they were together. He'd been cheating on me. He more or less admitted it when I was in hospital, when I texted and asked if he'd left his diamond behind on purpose. But he never said anything about them planning to get married. I feel stupid, more than anything. They were carrying on before he ever went to Canada. Must have been from not long after we got engaged again. I don't understand how I didn't see it."

Dimmock puts the iPad down, hugs Lestrade tight. 

"You didn't want to, I expect. You loved him."

"Yeah. I feel so angry, Theo. He let me think he still loved me. He let me go on thinking I had someone…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Greg finally has to accept it's over. Can he move on now?
> 
>  
> 
> Temperatures are in Celsius. 15° Fahrenheit would be a bit too cold for indoors.


	7. Only forward…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets some good news.

"Thanks, Mycroft. That's terrific news. God knows I could do with some. And thanks for looking for flats for me. Pity none of them have worked out. Maybe we'll find something in the new year. Theo'll be glad to have his place to himself again, I expect."

Lestrade switches off his phone. Mycroft has given him some very good news. 

"Another flat to look at? I don't know why you don't just stay here. We're good, aren't we? You could pay half the mortgage. We could get a contract drawn up if you want…"

Dimmock has accompanied Lestrade to look at half a dozen flats, and has pointed out potential problems with all of them. 

"Not a flat, this time, T. I'm going to get some money. I'll be able to trade in the car…"

"Why do you want to trade in your car? It's not that old…"

"I need to get an automatic, Theo. The physio is doing wonders, but my ankle is going to be a problem for a long while yet. I need to be able to drive. I won't have to depend on my dodgy ankle if I get an automatic."

"All right. That makes sense. What money?"

"I rented out my flat in Peckham when I moved in with Billy. The letting agency have agreed to buy it off me. I think Mycroft might have persuaded them. I'll have enough to put a deposit down on a new place, and get a new car."

"That's great, Greg. But I still don't see why you don't just stay here. Invest your money in something that'll give good interest…"

"Theo, you need your own space, mate."

"I don't. I love living with you."

Lestrade smiles.

"Theo, I'm enjoying living here, but it's not been very long. What if it all goes wrong? I'll be out on my ear again with nowhere to go. I can't do that again. I need somewhere of my own. Even if it's only as a bolt hole to give us a bit of breathing space. You know what I'm like when I'm stuck into a case. I know what you're like…"

"That's why it will work. We know more about each other than most married couples do. We won't get annoyed about the demands of our jobs, because our jobs are the same. The sex is fantastic. I've fancied you forever…"

"I know. But I'm not a young man any more, Theo. You're not much older than Billy, you've got a lot of living still to do…"

"You can't compare me to Billy, Greg. He was naive, you were his first. He never knew what it would be like to be with someone else. I do. I've been round the block a bit. I'm not asking you to love me, Greg. I'm just asking you to stay. You're not good on your own. I've seen you on your own, and you're shit at it."

"Yeah. I know. Look, let's leave it till after Christmas, eh? I don't want us to argue. Let's see how it goes?"

"Okay. We've got stuff to sort out today, anyway. I want a Christmas tree, and you've got to get your secret Santa gift for the party tonight. Who did you get in the draw?"

"Not telling. So stop fishing."

Sally Donovan organised the Secret Santa draw every year, and she had not wanted to leave Lestrade out of it, just because he was on sickness leave. She had emailed him with the name of the person he had to buy a secret gift for, and told him this year's price limit was ten pounds. He's drawn Anderson, the forensics officer, and knows exactly what he wants to buy him. The corner shop sells cheap toys, and Lestrade had spotted a bag of toy dinosaurs in lurid colours hanging behind the counter last time was in there. It will be perfect. 

*****

"Stop faffing around with that tree. It looks great. You'll make us late if you don't hurry up and get dressed."

Dimmock is already ready for the party, dressed in cobalt blue jeans and a pink t-shirt. Lestrade hurriedly dresses, Levi's and a white t-shirt under his leather jacket. He scruffs up his hair with a very little bit of gel, and wears his earring. His hands are bare. He's finally stopped wearing Billy's ring. 

"You look amazing, Greg. You've got such a great arse. I'm jealous."

Lestrade wiggles it a bit. Dimmock pinches him, and laughs. 

"Let's get out of here before I rip those jeans off you again."

They get a cab to the Yard. The chances of encountering a spiked bowl of punch are very high, and they don't want to be tempted to drive home under the influence. Lestrade gets quieter as they get nearer to their destination. He starts to shake as they get out of the cab. 

"What's wrong, Greg?"

"I'm not going to be able to manage the stairs, T. A couple of floors, maybe, but not all the way up to the eighth…"

"Shit. I forgot you don't like lifts. Greg, what are you going to do when you return to duty next week?"

"Dunno. Stairs or lift, either way's going to be crippling. It'll have to be the lift tonight, T. Will you hang on to me?"

"Course. Here, put your arms round my waist."

Dimmock wraps his arms around Lestrade, pulls his head down against his shoulder and holds him tight as the lift climbs the eight storeys to the serious crimes division office. It could have been worse. Last time he'd been in this lift he'd been sick in the corner. 

*****

"It's great to see you sir. You look so much better. We're all looking forward to you coming back. DI Dimmock does his best, but…"

Donovan laughs, handing him a parcel.

"It's from your Secret Santa."

"Thanks, Sal. I'm looking forward to being back. Even if I am only driving a desk for a while."

He saunters over to the punch bowl and gets a drink. He is starting to relax and enjoy the evening. This is where he belongs. Back with his team, in this building.

Dimmock sidles up beside him. 

"I've got the karaoke sheets. What are you going to sing?"

"Wait and see."

"Okay, mystery man. I'm doing La Vida Loca. Stepping out of character a bit."

He winks.

Lestrade laughs out loud. 

"It'll be good. You've got a terrific voice, T."

"Yeah. I know."

Dimmock smirks. 

The party goes with a swing. Dimmock's song goes down well. And his swivelling hips. As he steps off the stage, Donovan announces it is time for the secret Santa presents to be opened. 

Dimmock sees Lestrade start to open his present. Walks across the room to see what it is. Sees him stagger, and catches him before he falls. 

"Take it T. I can't…"

Dimmock takes the parcel and glances at it. A fluffy toy. A little fluffy dog. The same breed as the dogs that had almost torn out Lestrade's throat. 

He wraps it up again quickly, goes to his own desk and puts it away. Looks around for Lestrade, who is nowhere to be seen. 

"Shit, Greg. Where've you got to?"

*****

Lestrade is in the gents' lavatory, vomiting. By the time Dimmock finds him, he is dry-heaving. 

"You all right?"

"Yeah. Give me a minute. _Stupid fucker, scared of a fluffy toy…"_

"Who would have given you that? Was it a joke?"

"Not a funny one, if it was. Gregson probably. He doesn't like me much… let's go back, T. I'm not going to let him get the last laugh on me. And I've got a song to sing."

*****

Lestrade sings 'Je ne regrette rien', and brings the house down. He steps down from the stage and throws caution to the wind, grabbing Dimmock for a slow dance, and snogging him under the mistletoe. 

"Greg…"

"Shush, T'éo. Let's just enjoy the moment, eh?"

"Okay. T'éo, though?"

"Sorry. Singing in French has set me off…"

"You do realise that absolutely no one will be convinced by your 'Mr Straight' act any more?"

"Yeah. Well, my team knew already. It's time everyone else did."

They dance smoochily for a bit longer. After a while, Lestrade looks around to see what the reaction of New Scotland Yard is to his sudden coming out. He is a bit miffed to see that most people haven't reacted at all. _"All right then. One less thing to worry about."_

"Can we go home, now T?"

"Yeah. Will you be okay in the lift?"

"I'm going to have to get used to using it. Might as well start now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dimmock sings: Ricky Martin: Livin La Vida Loca: <http://youtu.be/p47fEXGabaY>
> 
> Lestrade sings: Edith Piaf: Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien: <http://youtu.be/Q3Kvu6Kgp88>


	8. "Stop it. I'm fantastic."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg talks things over with Dimmock.

"Another dud. Looks like you're stuck with me for a while longer, T."

"I keep telling you. Just stay with me. You got used to designer living in Scotland. And in Bermondsey. Whatever you find will fall short of that. This place isn't bad…"

"This place is great, T. But…"

"But moving in officially implies a relationship. A commitment. I know."

Lestrade sighs, scrubbing both hands through his hair. It needs cutting. He'll be returning to work soon. He needs to get himself and his working wardrobe sorted out. Needs to find a home of his own.

He and Dimmock have looked at seven flats, the last two with the intent to buy, rather than rent. Dimmock has come up with potential problems every time. Today, he had spotted mould in the corner of the bathroom, a possible damp spot. It would need attention, might be superficial or an indication of something structural. 

"You always seem to spot the problems, T. I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."

"I'm not, really. I admit, I don't want you to move out, but if you find somewhere you love, I'll help you."

"We wouldn't lose touch, T. We'd just have a choice of places to sleep in. You could come and stay with me sometimes. If you want. I could still stay over with you. If you want. You'd have space to spend time with other people when you get fed up with my limited repertoire in bed…"

"Sherlock could break in and annoy you without me getting in the way…"

Dimmock trembles. Lestrade puts his arm around him. 

"We're not breaking up, T'éo…"

"I know. No strings…"

*****

"I don't know what I'm doing, T."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not experienced enough to read people. I don't know how to be gay."

They are in Dimmock's bed. 

"You seem to be doing all right…"

"I don't mean sex, T. But… maybe I do."

"Come here, I need a cuddle."

Dimmock snuggles up against him, big spoon to Lestrade's little spoon. 

"Okay. What's worrying you?"

"I need to…I don't know. I need to be able to make my own choices. Not always have someone else make them for me. I need to be able to recognise when someone is interested, to be able to let them know I'm interested. To pick someone up sometimes. To surprise you with something, not always be the one who doesn't know what he's doing. To take charge sometimes."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Sniffs. 

"I don't know how, T. I've never known how. I just wait. And hope. And take what I'm given. And… I'm going to be lonely again. When you get fed up with me…"

"You took charge with Billy. Asked him to marry you…"

"Yeah. That worked out well, didn't it? He made the first move, you know, in Scotland. He kissed me first. Fucked me first. Gave me an engagement ring first. He needed someone."

"Ah. I didn't realise. You got pushed…"

"Yeah. From the start, really. Something Mycroft said has just come back to me…"

"What?"

"He said 'You can't keep secrets from Sherlock'. Sherlock knew I had a bit of a crush on him. I was married, wouldn't have done anything about it. It made me feel a bit dirty, but he fascinated me. He must have known how it hurt me when he got involved with John. He told Mycroft I was fond of Billy. I was, but not as fond as I was of Sherlock. Then Sherlock died and it broke my heart. Mycroft sent me to Scotland to look after Billy. Consolation prize, but I fell in love with him. I'd been divorced by then. I didn't even decide to do that. She divorced me, even though she was the one playing away. Billy was really needy. I was lonely. Mycroft gave us a perfect house with only one bed…"

"He set you up…Greg, am I pushing you?"

"You are a bit, T. I'm not complaining. We're great. But I'm scared I'll get hurt again. It seems to be the way things go for me."

"Tell me what you want. What you need."

"I don't know. I suppose I need my own place. I want to invite you to stay with me sometimes. Not be dependent on you. I want to be able to sing in my own power shower. Get drunk on my own sometimes. Cook food I like that you hate. Invite people over that you might not like. Play my bass really loud. Scatter case files around the living room, strip down a bike engine in the kitchen…"

"Okay. I get it. What about in bed? If you don't want me to take the lead?"

"I don't know, T. I don't know what the possibilities are. I love fucking. Top or bottom, I love it. I love blow jobs, giving or taking. But there's things I don't know, I'm sure."

"You might not like some of the other things."

"But I won't know…Maybe I should watch some porn…"

"I've never really liked porn. Makes my skin crawl. But you could try it. Be careful, though. You're a copper…"

"Yeah. Don't want to be a suspect in a vice case."

He laughs. 

"I'm a pathetic bastard."

"You're not. You're just feeling a bit low. You're brilliant at your job. I hope I'll be as good one day. Your team love you. You're kind. You're funny. You're a gnarly bass player and a terrific cook. You're the best, the best cuddler I've ever cuddled. You make love as if you mean it…"

"All right. Stop it. I'm fantastic."

He laughs.

"I still need to have my own space, T. I really do."

"All right. There's two more to see tomorrow. Maybe one of them will be perfect."


	9. It's my life…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets on with it.

Lestrade hums as he showers. The oversized shower head delivers a needle-sharp spray, with enough pressure to redden his skin. He loves it. A good bathroom had been a priority when he had been looking for a new home. He towels dry and goes to the kitchen, not bothering to dress. He is in his own home, alone. The central heating is efficient. He can go naked if he wants to. 

The letterbox on his front door rattles. _Post_. He walks to the hallway, grinning broadly. The flat he finally fell in love with is in an old converted police station. _Kismet_ , he thinks. He managed to outbid a fair number of competitors at auction to buy the original blue lantern. It hangs in his hallway and makes him smile every time he sees it. 

He picks up a pile of envelopes and flyers, sifting through them and throwing junk mail straight into the bin. There are two bills, a letter from the hospital discharging him from physio, another from New Scotland Yard confirming his return to active duties. He smiles. It will be good to get out from behind his desk. He is sure he's put on a few inches on his arse from sitting down all day. 

He puts the two letters on the kitchen table for filing later, and turns the final piece of post over in his hands. A pale mauve envelope. He doesn't recognise the writing. He opens it. A valentine card. _A valentine card?_ He hasn't had one of those since he was a teenager. It is unsigned. He checks the envelope again. It is definitely for him. He grins. Someone likes him. He stands the card on his bookshelf. 

He switches on the radio, dances a little lop-sidedly along to Bon Jovi while he cooks breakfast. He has bought himself a range cooker, a cream Smeg to match his fridge. He loves cooking, and has made sure his kitchen is state of the art. He swears as bacon spits and hot fat splashes his penis. _Maybe not such a good idea to cook in the nude…_ Luckily it is a tiny splash. It won't blister. 

He eats slowly, enjoying every mouthful. No need to rush today. He has a couple of hours before he needs to report to the Superintendent for his "return to active duty" meeting. 

He checks himself out in the ornately framed bedroom mirror. He looks okay, he thinks. 

His belly is flatter than it has been for years. Regular sex must be keeping the muscles in good shape. And maybe his twice-weekly gym sessions. Abdominal muscles are visible, if a little soft. Arms are good, strong. Legs too. His arse is rounded, _squeezable_ he has been told. 

No back fat. No man boobs. No double chins. 

He looks critically at his scars. 

An old, faded scar from a knife wound on his side, shallow. 

Left leg, a newer, larger set of scars. Dog bites. The ankle is still weak, but improving. Ditto right hand. The fingers are mobile now, should soon be back to normal. The hand is a little stiff, but physio has worked wonders. He can drive, use a pen, keyboard, phone. Play his bass. 

The scar under his right eye is neat, rakish, rather than ugly. Scars on his neck. More dog bites. 

A sweeping scar from right hip to left mid-thigh, crossing his belly and the base of his penis, is covered with a tattoo of green leaves and purple flowers. Heliotrope. His penis hangs a little lower than it used to, but it twitches to life happily as he touches it. 

The last couple of years have left their mark on him. 

He dresses in his 'policeman' clothes. Grey suit, check shirt. No tie. A narrow thong threaded with red glass chips that he always wears. The scars on his throat will fade in time. He doesn't worry about covering them. 

His hair is completely silver. No trace of the dark-haired pretty boy he had once been. He doesn't care. He wears his age and the evidence of his work proudly. 

He looks around the flat before he leaves for work. It suits him. He is happy. He has a date tonight. And someone has sent him a valentine card. He hums as he closes the door behind him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we leave Greg in a happy place…
> 
>  Bon Jovi: It's My Life: <http://youtu.be/vx2u5uUu3DE>
> 
> For a couple of glimpses of Lestrade and Dimmock's social life, read my short fics [That's DCI Lestrade, Dr Watson](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2056761)  
> and [Gin And Tonic Jelly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2021784)


End file.
